


Girls Getting Harder - [1/1]

by nahemaraxe (zephyrina)



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Genderbending, M/M, Pegging, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 14:18:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1307893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zephyrina/pseuds/nahemaraxe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a while (and with some external help), Brian realizes that waking up with a brand new body has its pros, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Girls Getting Harder - [1/1]

**Girls Getting Harder**  
(2,185) // (NC-17)  
Bob Bryar/Brian Schechter/Frank Iero  
After a while (and with some external help), Brian realizes that waking up with a brand new body has its pros, too.  
The guys aren't mine, it never happened.  
Written for [](http://crowgirl13.livejournal.com/profile)[**crowgirl13**](http://crowgirl13.livejournal.com/) for the [Fic Tropes Meme](http://zephyrina.livejournal.com/243126.html), prompt 'genderswap'. ♥ to [](http://framianne.livejournal.com/profile)[**framianne**](http://framianne.livejournal.com/) for her help and to [](http://earlofcardigans.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://earlofcardigans.livejournal.com/)**earlofcardigans** for her beta job. Thank you so much.  
Crack, mentions of pegging, boys turning into girls at random. Title stolen from Garbage.

 

*

“I can’t come.”

“Why?”

“I just can’t, alright?”

Making a face, Frank lodges his cell phone between his shoulder and his ear and opens the fridge. There should be some orange juice left from yesterday, he only needs to locate it. Fuck Bob and his ‘let’s throw everything in and worry about it later’ fridge-philosophy, really.

“Okay,” he says while pushing cans of Red Bull and too-ripe-edging-to-rotten eggplants aside (Bob, _seriously_ ). “I get it, I get it. Bob will be pissed, of course, it’s his birthday and you’ll be sitting on your ass in sunny California rather than here with us – where you belong too, I might add – but _I_ get it, Schechter. No problem.”

“That’s right, call back when you’re done trying to guilt-trip me. And for Christ’s sake, stop talking like a bad Harlequin character.”

“I ain’t. I’m just saying that Bob will get sad and I’ll have to comfort him with blowjobs and cozy couch-sex while you jerk off all alone over there. I’m like, stating a fact.”

“Jesus--” starts Brian, just when Bob enters the kitchen.

“Who’s jerking off?” he asks, faking an interest that – Frank knows it – he doesn’t really feel, not so early in the morning. Not if he’s wearing that silly Wyle E. Coyote hoodie Frank got him last year, a sure sign that he’s practically sleepwalking and unaware of anything that’s happening around him. “And what are you doing in my fridge?”

(Okay, make it 'almost unaware')

“Our fridge. The upper side is mine, and your Chinese leftovers are invading it. Just saying,” answers Frank. “Anyway, I’m talking to our one third, he’s telling me he’s going to stand us up. He doesn’t love us anymore.”

The fact that Bob answers with a ‘a-ha’ and then proceeds to go faceplant on the couch pretty much confirms Frank’s theory. He’ll recap the call with Brian when Bob’s back to the world of the living again, now he wants to deal with (and find out about) the big issue that Schechter doesn’t want to spill. Boyfriend #1 later, boyfriend #2 now, the life of a poly guy is never boring. Frowning, Frank digs out the orange juice at last and shuts the fridge door with a knee.

“Bob’s gone to drown his sorrow on the couch, Brian. I think he’s gonna try choking himself with the pillows or something. Will you come to the funeral at least?”

“Frank, please. Cut the drama queen act, I said I can’t,” says Brian. “Not now, at least. Maybe in a few days. I hope.”

“Okay, okay. You can’t, you _reallyreallyreally_ can’t and you’re sorry about it.”

“Of course I am, Frank. I’m not exactly having fun here. Let me speak to Bob, come on.”

“You won’t get anything more than a trhgrhgrhgdlblb from him now. Talk to me. I’m here, I’m listening, I’ll understand. What is it? You decided that a pink face tattoo was a good idea? You converted to Buddhism and you’re going around with your head shaved and orange clothes? Wait-- you aren’t bringing a fourth in, are you? I know I said it’d be okay back then, when we had our big poly talk, but you need to know that I was lying. Totally lying.”

Silence comes from the other end of the line, and in that moment Frank wishes that the video call function of his phone would still be working. Or that someone bought him a new iPhone for Christmas. Or that he brought his own to the Apple Store to have it fixed. Like this he can’t tell if they’re going through a puzzled silence, a shocked silence or rather a guilty silence, since he can’t see Brian’s face – and therefore he doesn’t know how to react. Fuck.

“Brian?”

“Idiot. No, there isn’t any fourth, are you crazy? The two of you are enough for a lifetime.”

“Yeah, I love you too. Anyway, since it isn’t that and since we’d keep you even with a face tattoo, get your ass on that plane and come over. We’ll pick you up, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay, I said I can’t,” answers Brian, but Frank is running short of diplomacy already.

“And I’m saying that I don’t care. Till later, and don’t forget my present for Bob. I left it in the closet, second shelf from top,” he replies and then he hangs up on him.

*

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t think it’s anything serious – I mean, he’d tell us.”

“You sure?” says Frank, raising an eyebrow, and Bob shrugs before stealing another glance at his phone. Brian’s flight should land in about ten minutes, but except for a laconic text he got around noon (‘About to leave. Will get a cab’), Brian’s been radio silent the whole day, not even taking his calls. That’s odd at best, and Bob has no idea of what kind of storm is brewing, not even after Frank told him about the call. Argument or not – and Frank swore he hung up before it could break – the silent treatment doesn’t become Brian at all. When Brian’s pissed, he gets loud about it, with great usage of choice words, and either Bob or Frank usually gets an earful on the subject. Yeah, rule #4 of their relationship says that it’s not okay for A to complain to B about C but hey, they’ve always been pretty lax about said rule.

Long story short, Bob’s worried.

“He’s not like, relapsing or anything, uh?” is saying Frank in that moment. “Or about to break up with us?”

“Frank, you spoke to him, not me. No clue here.”

“Why didn’t you wake up then? It’s not hard, you’ve been doing it every morning since you were born. One would think that you’d learned the basics by now.”

Bob kicks Frank in the shin; having him at kicking distance is the main reason why he likes to sit right in front of him. “I tend to forget about them at ass o’ clock in the morning, dickhead. And why can't you two discuss important shit at noon like normal people anyway?”

“He called, not me. And I don’t want to argue.”

“Then don’t,” says Bob, casting him a pointed look. “Just-- let’s wait and hear what the issue is first, then we’ll decide what to do.”

“Okay. Stop worrying, though.”

“I ain’t,” replies Bob, stealing another glance at his phone.

*

“So,” says Frank.

“So,” says Bob.

“…so?” asks Brian, just to inwardly kick himself. He didn’t mean it to be a question or to pose it in such an uncertain (high pitched, girly) tone, he meant-- well. He meant it to sound exactly as it’s always been sounding after puberty, a one-word statement in _his own voice_. Just that. It’s not that much to ask for, right? Shit, he knew he should have stayed home.

Frowning, he squares his shoulders and straightens his back. “So. What?”

“Nothing,” they answer at once, shaking their heads, and yeah, they’d maybe look convincing enough if they weren’t both staring at his hoodie, Bob with a solemn face and Frank with his mouth agape. Upon realizing it (and realizing how his current position is emphasizing things rather than hiding them), an instinct Brian didn’t know he had until 24 hours ago kicks in and he hurries to cross his arms on his chest.

“My face is a few inches above, fuckers.”

“No, okay,” says Frank, “you have tits.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“But I mean, you have fucking _tits_.”

“I _know._ I told you I couldn’t come but no, you had to bugger the shit out of me all the same.”

“Dude, dude,” intervenes Bob in that moment, arms open and palms up in a peace-offering gesture. “Calm down. It’s alright. I mean, I would have liked to known before, sure, but if you feel like it’s better for you and you’re happier this way, I’m--”

“Wait, what?” asks Frank, interrupting him. “You don't mean that-- God, Schechter, you cut your dick like, off?”

“No. Jesus. You two.”

A headache of epic proportion is coming his way and Brian flops on the couch, feeling pretty much worn out. Of course, he knows that if he were in their place he’d probably think about a planned surgery, too, but the thing is, he didn’t have any. Christ, he was happy with his dick – he went to sleep with it, he just woke up, well-- without it, and that’s what he tells them.

“I got up to take a piss and it was gone. _Gone_ and I had tits. Just like that. I don’t know,” he finishes in a monotone, his eyes closed. No one speaks for a while, then someone (Bob, he guesses) sits right next to him and someone else (Frank) leans over, hitting his knee with his own and poking him in the ribs.

“What do you want?”

“If that’s so, you’ll change back,” starts Bob, rubbing his shoulder in a comforting way. “It happened once, it’ll happen again.”

“Yeah,” agrees Frank. “I think so, too.”

“But?”

“But while we wait for it to fix itself, you could as well show.”

“Yeah,” says Bob, “that, too.”

Slowly, Brian cracks an eye open. Some part of his brain is protesting it rather vehemently (it’s stupid as shit, but he feels very self conscious about his brand new body), while some other is feeling gleeful all of a sudden. Fuck, they’re his boyfriends, and the idea of getting naked in front of them is welcome by default. Besides, they could-- uh, they could try things out, maybe. He could find out how his girl parts work (not that he hasn’t already tried poking and prodding around, but he just wasn’t in the mood to get off and ended up with the equivalent sense of frustration that comes from being unable to get it up).

“Well. Since we don’t have anything else to do…”

“This,” agrees Bob before grabbing his chin and planting a kiss on his lips.

*

Brian doesn’t change back that night, but he’s too busy fucking (god bless porno shops open up until late and straps-on, really) and getting fucked to care. They try every position they can think of, from the classic to the most ridiculous ones and whoa. W-fucking-hoa. First of all, clitoris orgasms can blow a man’s brain out, plain and simple, and the fact that he can _go on_ is fucking great. At some point, while Bob is fucking him in the ass and Frank is sucking on his left nipple, he even considers getting _multiple orgasms ftmfw_ tattooed somewhere, or at least its acronym, because good god. Intense.

“You all should turn into women,” he says at some point during the next day. They’re having a break, since Bob’s got lack-of-sleep bags under his eyes, Frank’s flopped on his back an hour ago, stating that he can’t get it up anymore for today, and Brian feels sore as hell. That doesn’t prevent him from fingering himself every now and then, though, even if it’s a lazy thing; he just likes that wet feeling between his legs. “For real. Just to try it out.”

“And that's from someone who yesterday said he wanted to hide until he changed back,” comments Bob, casting him an amused glance. “I take it that you aren’t freaking out anymore?”

“Well, I guess I will again when the whole clitoris thing starts getting old. I mean, it’s all fun and games, but I’m still pretty fond of my dick.”

“We are, too,” says Frank, raising his head just about enough to kiss him. He’s fast asleep a few minutes later, snoring softly into the pillow, and Bob pulls the blanket up to cover him before looking back at Brian.

“He’s right, you know. Fucking your girl-you is good, and you look hot with a strap-on, but we still like your old version, too.”

“So you’re not going to kick me out once I change back?”

Bob glares. “Fuck you, Schechter,” he says, and then he starts laughing when Brian spreads his legs and wiggles his eyebrows.

“Be my guest.”

*

If Bob wakes up, it’s just because he rolled on his stomach in his sleep and at some points during the night, things started getting uncomfortable. Namely his chest. Namely the… brand new rack of tits he got? And--

“Oh shit,” he groans, kicking the sheets aside and shoving a hand between his legs just to find out that his dick is gone, too. It looks like it’s his turn now, since Frank’s own dick is still in place (but Bob suspects it’ll be the next one to go, as soon as he regains his) and Brian’s back again. Oh well. He guesses he can live as Roberta for a couple of days, especially if he gets to try that multiple orgasm thing Brian was fucking ecstatic about. Tomorrow’s gonna be his birthday and wow, what an awesome gift. Grinning, he pokes at both his boyfriends.

“Wake up, you guys. Got things to show you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost (2010)


End file.
